


On Trees and Mistletoe

by Nimohtar



Series: Tales of Burgess [2]
Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family, M/M, Matchmaking, ROTG Secret Santa 2020, Trees, mix of book and film canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28385013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimohtar/pseuds/Nimohtar
Summary: A chance encounter in the woods leads to an evening of domesticity.Written for Prompt 64 for the ROTG Secret Santa Stocking Stuffer 2020 Exchange!
Relationships: Jack Frost & Mother Nature | Seraphina Pitchiner, Jack Frost/Pitch Black
Series: Tales of Burgess [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078874
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	On Trees and Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChibisUnleashed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibisUnleashed/gifts).



> Bunniemew, I couldn’t include it last year, but I promised I would, so I managed it this year! Jack + trees and/or Ents. Maybe not quite what you were looking for, but Sera took over a bit!
> 
> This fic is a continuation of my AU world in “On Snow and Laughter” and will make more sense if you read that one, however it can be read as a stand alone.
> 
> Notes:  
> Faðir - Father (Old Norse)  
> Mútta - Mother (informal, Icelandic)  
> Zosime - Slovak pr. Zoh-si-may (Greek, “survivor”)

Jack Frost is, by nature, a curious being. 

He has always been adventurous, and drawn to mystery and rumour, now even more so than when he was human, with ice and wind and immortality to open up the world for him. 

He allows his curiosity and quick-silver attention to lead him as it wills, for rarely is he disappointed with the discovery that awaits; for all experience is worthwhile, whether good, or mediocre, or bad. 

It is North who taught him that. 

Still, there is one thing that will draw him like no other - the sight of a person alone. He has spent far too long alone and lonely himself to ever wish it on another,  _ especially _ if that someone is a child. The thought is anathema to him. He is a Guardian, chosen and named as such, and even when he is at home, with no crises or holidays, he takes his duties towards children seriously. 

Carried by the friendly wind, he lands lightly in the snow.

“Seraphina,” he greets in surprise, for he has only met the young girl a few times since his return to Burgess, and he was not expecting to come across her here, in the snow-laden woods outside of town. 

She sits with her back against the rough bark of a tree, her cloak pulled up over her dark hair, her mittened hands resting in her lap. She does not appear upset, which is an immediate relief to Jack; she smiles widely upon seeing him, her golden eyes, so like her father’s, lighting up. “Jack! It’s lovely to see you.”

“Is everything all right?” he hastens to ask. “Why are you all by yourself?”

Here, she bites her lip, her eyes lowering in a small show of guilt. “I had finished my lessons with Ombric and was on my way home,” she explains, “and I only meant to stop for a little while, but... I do enjoy listening to the trees, and I suppose time slipped away.”

Jack tilts his head to the side, eyeing the tree she rests against; it is a maple, common in these parts, neither young nor old, and nothing special as far as Jack can tell. Its branches are bare at this time of winter, and it is but one of many in this area. He listens, but can only hear his friendly wind play a whistling tune between the boughs, and something tells him that is not what Seraphina means. 

“What do you hear?” he asks instead. 

Seraphina smiles again, and lifts a covered hand to stroke along the trunk. “They tell me stories. Little things, idle thoughts. A squirrel has buried its nuts at the base of this one. That one over there remembers the sun on its leaves, and longs for Spring again. The one beside it was unwell and bore no fruit. It feels hopeful about this year, though.”

Jack’s eyes widen in awe as he turns in his spot, seeing the trees that Seraphina points to in a new light. He knows many beings of incredible power, and his own magic is not insignificant either, but he has not met many who have mastered the Earth and Nature. Aster holds dominion over his Warren, and his tunnels cross the world in a never-ending path, the flowers and new life his unique signature; Toothiana holds the memories of thousands upon thousands, and Ombric holds knowledge of lifetimes. Jack is ever astounded by them, to the point where he often questions his place among them; but this - such a small thing, the tales of trees - delights him. 

He steps forward, placing his own hand upon the tree closest to him, as if he too could hear their words. “How do they speak to you? Do they have names?” His questions fall in a tumble from his lips. 

Seraphina rises to her feet, brushing snow off her dark cloak, and moves to join him. She looks up into the crooked branches, a gentleness on her features. “It’s...hard to explain. It’s more of a feeling, like a song in my heart...a vision at the corners of my eyes, and a whisper in the wind that I can decipher if I concentrate. I still have a lot to learn,” she adds ruefully, but her body vibrates with excitement, the same quest for answers that many of those who come to Burgess share. 

“Does Ombric teach you well?” Jack asks. The wizard shares his library and knowledge with all who seek it, but only few call themselves his students. Mr. Qwerty was one of the first, now just as venerated in the town as Ombric himself; then came North, and Katherine had her own special place as Ombric’s adopted daughter. Often those he taught were great in power, or held special abilities. He doesn’t question Seraphina’s presence in Burgess.

“Oh yes,” Seraphina tells him with enthusiasm. “He has encountered many forms of magic, and has worked with Nature before.”

“When he created the Spirit of the Forest, and bound The Bear?” Jack confirms, referencing two of the protections that surround Burgess. Jack has spent many an evening conversing with the Spirit under the starlit sky, and teased The Bear while he patrols the woods. 

Seraphina nods. “Among others.”

“You already know so much,” Jack comments wryly, releasing a soft sigh. He’s not envious, as such, although at one time he might have been. It had taken him decades to uncover the secrets of his own power, centuries still to master them. He is pleased that others can find guidance while still young. 

“ _ Faðir  _ taught me what he could, but we are...different, at our core. His power is...shadows and fear, and mine comes from growth and the eternal cycle of life.” Her words are thoughtful, truth without unkindness. Their love for one another is obvious, despite the differences in their hearts. “There was only so far he could take me.”

Jack nods, hesitates, finally asks, “And your mother?”

He has never broached the topic before, and no one in the town has yet spoken of it, not even Katherine, who is usually first to hear someone’s life story. 

Seraphina’s smile dims. “ _ Mútta _ didn’t have magic, not like  _ faðir _ and I, or you. She was gifted in other things, though - she sang and danced, sewed and painted. She was kind, and full of love, although she did not like me to play in the gardens, because I would dirty my dresses, and lose my shoes.” She said the last with fondness, though there was pain beneath the words. “ _ Faðir  _ tells me stories of her as well, and I have a picture of her in my locket. She died of a wasting sickness just after my sixth birthday.”

Jack’s heart clenches, and he rests a hand on Seraphina’s small shoulder. He does not like to offer false platitudes, but wants to comfort all the same. “They are good memories to have.”

She nods, and surreptitiously wipes the corner of her eye. “It has been just us two for several years now. I miss her, of course, but I have friends. I worry about  _ faðir _ . Sometimes he seems lonely.”

“Oh, hey now,” Jack kneels down before her, moves his hand to take hers. “It’s not for you to worry about him. I’m sure if he wanted to, he could make friends too. And he’s in Burgess! There’s lots of great people here.”

Admittedly, Pitch doesn’t often frequent the main town, except for the occasional trip for supplies, or to attend Ombric’s weekly gatherings. 

“I suppose.” Seraphina draws out the words, unconvinced, and Jack feels compelled to reassure her. 

“I...understand loneliness,” he says hesitantly. “It...can be unpleasant, and can leave hollow wounds, and sometimes they never quite go away...but you can still be happy.” He glances to the side, lost for a brief moment in his own darker memories, before he recollects his thoughts. “I guess what I’m trying to say is he has you, and you are family. And it can be enough.”

Seraphina stares at him with speculative eyes, mulling over his words. Eventually she seems to come to a decision. “He deserves more,” she says at last. 

“And I’m sure he’ll find it,” Jack soothes. 

“I should probably go home now,” Seraphina announces suddenly. Discussing her father probably reminds her she is not meant to be out so late. 

Jack rises to his feet, but when he tries to withdraw his hand, Seraphina’s grip tightens. “Will you walk me home?” she requests.

“Of course!” He cannot resist her pleading expression. There are no dangers in the woods, not outside of Burgess, where there is magic and protections woven into the very ground itself, but Jack wishes to see her home safe and well. “Lead the way.”

She keeps hold of his hand as she steps past him, heading confidently in the direction of home. Jack ambles along at her pace, staff resting atop his shoulder; he amuses himself by matching his footsteps with hers, leaving twin trails in the snow. He has to concentrate, for normally he steps so lightly as to leave no trace. 

They walk several minutes in comfortable silence, before Seraphina returns to their previous discussion. “You asked if the trees have names. They do, of a sort. They change, with time, and seasons, and the trees’ whims.”

“Oh? Can you tell me some of them?” Jack is intrigued once more. 

“The one I sat under was  _ leans-slightly-left _ ,” she informs him brightly, “although it used to be  _ lightning-struck _ , and before that,  _ summer-nesting-spot. _ ”

Jack grins widely, amused by the idea of a name changing so easily. He doesn’t want to imagine what his names would be with how changeable his interests and obsessions are, and the less said about Katherine’s mercurial moods the better!

They reach the end of the treeline; a fence runs along the line of an open field, and Jack lifts Seraphina across first, before using his staff to vault over after. 

“Do winds have names?” she asks curiously as she retakes his hand. Jack is surprised the cold of his skin doesn’t bother her, even with mittens.

He thinks about his answer. “No...unless you count the names that humans give to the winds, like Zephyrus and Boreas. Like your trees, they don’t really think of themselves in that way. They have personalities, though. You’ve got the slow, peaceful ones that don’t bother with what’s around them; then there are the angry and vindictive ones - you want to steer clear of those. Others are friendly and playful though - like the one that helps me fly.”

He raises their joined hands, and  _ his _ wind, one of his oldest and dearest friends, answers his call immediately, coiling in a rush beneath their feet and lifting them into the air. Seraphina shrieks in delight as they’re pulled forward the whole length of the field, and her cheeks are flushed a pretty pink when the wind drops them lightly on the other side. 

“Thanks!” Jack says politely, and the wind ruffles his hair in reply. 

“That was amazing!” She tucks strands of flyaway hair behind her ear. “When I’m strong enough, Ombric says he’ll take me in his time machine to see the Old Trees - they were an ancient race who birthed and grew the first trees, he says. They aren’t here anymore, sadly, but he says maybe they might teach me their lore.”

“That’s incredible!” Jack enthuses. “ _ You’re _ incredible.”

“Incredible, yes, but  _ late _ .”

Jack looks up sharply to find Pitch Black before them, although he swears the path was empty but a moment ago. The Nightmare King stands tall and straight, his hands clasped behind his back. He wears black trousers and leather boots, and a coat that falls to mid-thigh and buttons up to his chin, with faint silver embroidery along the shoulders and collar. His expression is neutral, his gold-silver eyes sharp as he gazes upon them. As before, he does not seem affected by the cold. 

“ _ Faðir! _ ” Seraphina cries happily. She releases Jack’s hand and sprints across the snow to launch herself into her father’s arms. Pitch scoops her up easily, and holds her against his chest, where Seraphina wraps her arms around his neck and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

Pitch’s stern expression falters under Seraphina’s affection, and he gives a soft sigh as he presses his lips to her forehead. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry to be late,” she offers contritely. “I got carried away. Next time, I will make sure to let you know.”

The ‘next time’ is apparently accepted as a given, for Pitch simply hums. “Make sure that you do.”

“Were you worried?” She appears more indulgent than sorry about this prospect. “Jack took care of me.”

Jack finds himself the object of scrutiny, and resists the urge to stand to attention, or straighten his coat, or flatten his hair. He’s almost three hundred years old - he shouldn’t be made to feel like a naughty schoolboy so easily! Except if anyone can come across as intimidating, it’s Pitch, as Jack has experienced before. 

“I was bringing her home,” he reassures Pitch. “We just got caught up chatting along the way.”

“Thank you, Jack.” Pitch inclines his head. 

Jack offers a quick smile, and grips his staff in both hands. “I guess I’ll just, uh, head on back then. It was nice to see you again, Seraphina.”

Seraphina leans in and whispers something to Pitch, who frowns mildly in puzzlement, before asking formally, “Would you care to join us for dinner?”

“Oh!” Jack’s brows shoot up at the unexpected offer. “I don’t...actually need to eat,” he deflects awkwardly. “Like sleeping or…breathing…” He trails off, wondering if that makes him sound weird and off-putting. 

“Come for dinner, Jack,” Pitch repeats, softer this time.

“I...Okay.”

Jack knows the place that the Pitchiners have temporarily moved into. Tall William told him all about his dad’s step-brother who travelled south to look after his in-laws’ pottery business after they’d fallen ill. It’s a cosy two storey cabin on the outskirts of Burgess’ territory, and has been empty for months, so it’s good that it’s being used. 

Pitch lifts Seraphina onto his shoulders for the short walk back; they really hadn’t been far from home when he found them. Seraphina chatters happily about her lessons with Ombric, and Pitch interjects every now and again with a question or comment. Jack stays silent, content to listen.

When they reach the cabin, the windows shine brightly with strung lights and a plume of smoke wafts gently from the chimney. They climb up the steps to the wraparound porch, and Pitch finally lowers his daughter to the ground, letting her enter first. In the entryway, he helps her remove her tall winter boots, gloves, and cloak, setting them into their proper places as she runs off into the house. 

“Wash up quickly, now, Sera!” Pitch instructs. “Dinner is almost ready.”

“Yes,  _ faðir!” _

Jack watches as Pitch removes his own coat, revealing a thin form-fitting black shirt that covers his arms to his wrists, but falls in an open vee down his chest, exposing his grey-silver skin. He replaces his boots with a pair of house-slippers. 

“Would you care for some?” he offers, but Jack shakes his head. 

“I’m used to being barefoot.” He brushes a few flakes of snow off his own clothes, and wipes his bare feet on the woven mat just inside the door. He leaves his staff in a corner beside the front door, next to a delicately carved bow which can only belong to Pitch. 

“Please,” Pitch indicates with a sweep of his hand for Jack to go ahead. 

The layout of the room is similar to many found in Burgess: a large open space that encompasses most of the ground floor, divided into a sitting area and kitchen, with a door in the far corner most likely leading to a pantry and washroom. 

For all their stay is temporary, they have clearly made it their home. Picture frames and trinkets line the carved stone mantel that dominates one wall, and comfortable red leather armchairs draped with patchwork blankets and cushions are positioned in front of the roaring fire. Tapestries of constellations and planets decorate the wooden walls, and candles in glass jars hang from the rafters, providing light. A long wooden dining table and benches made from dark wood separate the sitting area from the kitchen, already laden with dishes. 

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, no,” Pitch tells him, and makes his way over to where several copper pots sit bubbling atop the cast iron aga. “Take a seat - wherever you wish.”

Despite his instructions, Jack lingers to one side of the table, watching with interest as Pitch quickly stirs the contents of one pot with one hand, while using his foot to flick open one of the oven doors just below. Somehow it didn’t occur to him that it would be Pitch preparing dinner, which he realises is a silly thought, because Seraphina told him it was just the two of them, and they must eat  _ somehow. _

“Problem?” he asks over his shoulder, as if he can sense Jack’s surprise. He knows Pitch can naturally pick up on people’s fear; perhaps it makes him sensitive to other emotions too. 

“I just hadn’t expected you to cook,” Jack admits. 

“ _ Faðir _ is good at it.” Seraphina joins them, retrieving another place setting and adding it to the table. “And he may say he doesn’t enjoy it, but he does,” she teases in a faux-whisper that is nonetheless audible to everyone in the room. 

“I try my best,” Pitch gives a sly smile.

“It’s more than I can do!” Jack says, and finally sits at the table. 

Seraphina takes the seat opposite him, leaving the chair at the head of the table for Pitch. “You said you don’t eat.” 

“I do,” Jack clarifies, “I just don’t  _ need _ to. I still enjoy it, though!” he assures her. “You tried one of Mrs Bennet’s apple strudels yet?” 

Seraphina’s eyes light up. “Yes! They’re delicious!” 

“Right?!” Jack exaggeratedly smacks his lips together. “Best I’ve ever had!”

Their reminiscing is interrupted by multiple tendrils of shadow depositing several more bowls and dishes onto the table, covering nearly every surface on their end. Jack’s eyes widen at the sight - both at the food, and the casual yet domestic use of Pitch’s power. 

“Well, it’s not Mrs Bennet’s apple strudels, but this will have to do for tonight.” Pitch lowers himself into the chair at the head of the table. When neither of them move, he raises a thin eyebrow. “Well? It won’t do to let it get cold. No offence, Jack.”

Jack laughs. “None taken.”

“Thank you,  _ faðir _ !”

Jack’s words to Seraphina are true - he does not know all the details of his unique wintry immortality, but he does not need sustenance to survive. He does, however, enjoy partaking of edible delights, and Pitch’s cooking looks homely but appetising. 

There is sweet pumpkin soup, paired with crisp white rolls of bread that steam softly when torn apart and turn golden with melted butter; a roast of dried fruits and nuts, full of flavour and spices that Jack cannot begin to name. An array of vegetables - potatoes, carrots, bright string beans - roasted and steamed, and dripping with honey, accompanies it. 

“You don’t eat meat?” he asks at one point, helping himself to another bowl of soup. 

Seraphina wrinkles her nose, but it is Pitch who replies with a long-suffering roll of his eyes. “When your daughter befriends every mammal, bird and fish that crosses her path, it becomes somewhat difficult to continue a carnivorous diet.”

“I’m just surprised you can get so many vegetables this time of year,” Jack comments. They’re fresh, rather than dried or pickled as many do in winter. 

“I grow them in my garden,” Seraphina explains. “We go and collect them from the Lair every week.”

“Travelling by shadow can be very convenient,” Pitch adds, somewhat demurely. 

“Where do you live, Jack?”

“Well, all over the place, I guess.” He’s always been something of a wanderer, especially in his early decades when he’d yet to fully understand his nature and powers. He’d gone wherever the wind led him, to all corners of the world and beyond. He doesn’t regret his early nomadic lifestyle, for he has found many friends in far flung places - Toothiana and the Sisters of Flight in the palace of Punjam Hy Loo; North and the Yeti at the Pole; the Lunar Lamas at the peak of the Himalayas; Sandy and the mermaids on his Island of Sleepy Sands. For one who was unseen, to now find welcome whenever he goes is a heady rush. 

It is only in recent decades that he has come to think of Burgess as home, the centre point of his travels, and the place to which he returns. Yet, he does not have a house of his own, or a lair, or even an ice castle as some choose to believe! Most nights, he sleeps beneath the stars and the moon, and others, he finds his bed in Ombric’s tower among the floating bookshelves, or a hammock in the stables in the company of Petrov or Kailash. 

Seraphina frowns slightly, and even Pitch’s eyes are questioning. Jack waves away their concerns. “It’s how I like it, I promise! Now, tell me about this ‘Lair’?” 

After dinner, Jack joins Seraphina and Pitch in tidying up the meal, washing pots in the deep sink before drying them and putting them away in cupboards, wiping down the table and sweeping the floor. It reminds him of doing the same with his mother and sister, more than a lifetime ago. 

He is pleasantly full and very content, and reluctant to leave the warm and homely atmosphere of their cabin; when Pitch invites him for a game of chess, he happily accepts. They settle into the armchairs, and Pitch brings out a much-loved set from a trunk and places it on the table between them. 

As they start the game - Jack playing white and Pitch as black, of course - Seraphina spreads out several books on the plush rug in front of the fire, stretching out on her stomach to read. 

“Homework,” she answers Jack’s questioning look. 

Jack is not a great chess player; he is far too reactive and easily distracted to excel at games of strategy and long maneuvers, and he is easily beaten. As Pitch sets up for a second game, Jack glances at the books and framed pictures and odd trinkets that line the shelves to either side of the mantle. “What, ah, does a Nightmare King spend his time doing?” 

“You mean aside from spreading fear and terror through the minds of mortals?” Pitch’s lip curls on one side, and his eyes gleam. 

“Aside from that, yes.” Jack flushes. 

“I research, and experiment, and perform duties for the Golden Armies, although I no longer hold an official position within their ranks.” 

His answer simply serves to ignite Jack’s curiosity, for he has heard of the armies of the Tsars of Lunar, and his fellow Guardians regularly speak of Manny, the current Prince Lunanoff, but their place is in the stars and planets, and therefore out of Jack’s reach. 

“Perhaps you would like to hear the history of the Lunars?” 

As their second game becomes their third, and even their forth, Pitch’s low voice weaves a hypnotic tale of the Golden Age, of gigantic ships that sail the stars, of epic wars and battles, of nobility and abundance, and happiness and hope. To Jack, it is otherworldly, something beyond the scope of his understanding and his experience, no matter how far he has travelled and how much he has seen. 

“It’s a beautiful story,  _ faðir. _ ” At some point, Seraphina has abandoned her studies on the floor, and now sits in her father’s lap. She gives a small yawn, and Pitch turns his attention to her. 

“Time for bed, now, Sera. Go get ready and I shall be with you shortly.”

She slips from his lap, yawning again. “Good night, Jack. I hope you can come again soon.”

Jack smiles, and accepts her hug. “I’d like that. Good night, and I hope Sandy gives you sweet dreams.”

Jack watches her scamper up the stairs and disappear to the upper floor, before leaning back in the armchair. The evening has to come to an end some time, although he feels uncharacteristically sad for it. 

“Was it just a story?” he asks instead, wishing to prolong the moment. 

Pitch pauses in setting away the chess set. “As with all history, there is some truth and some lies to it. After all, the shine of gold can often be blinding, and hide the impurities beneath.”

To Jack, it sounds like he speaks from experience; he knows little of Pitch’s past, although he has learned more today than any other time in their short acquaintance. 

“Seraphina told me about her mother today.” He does not know why he mentions it. Perhaps it is the dark of the night and the pensive look on Pitch’s face; perhaps it is this nagging feeling within his chest, and Seraphina’s words of loneliness. 

Pitch turns to Jack in surprise. “Zosime?” He does not sound upset that his daughter has spoken of his wife to Jack, just somewhat puzzled. “There are not many to whom Sera speaks of her mother.” He gives a rueful smile. “For some reason, it does not surprise me you are one of them.”

Jack does not know how to respond to that. Instead, he asks, “How did you meet?”

Pitch links his arms behind his back. Now that he knows of his military background, Jack suspects it is an ingrained and comfortable position. 

He speaks quietly, fondly. “Zosime was a member of the Tsarina’s court. She was dedicated and loyal, and well-respected. Ours was a political marriage, a union of two noble families. She was a good friend, and a wonderful mother. And a far more worthy adversary in chess.” His smile reveals pointed teeth. 

Jack has to laugh, and does not take insult; he lost all four games rather spectacularly. “I’m sorry I’m such a lousy player.”

“It just means your talents lie elsewhere.”

They fall into silence, and Jack finally pushes himself to stand. “I’d best head out, leave you to your evening.”

He heads for the front door, Pitch following silently behind, and reclaims his staff. In the open doorway, he hesitates. “Thank you for having me. It was fun.” He huffs, rolls his eyes. “I should know.”

“Likewise,” Pitch murmurs. 

“You should come to town more often,” Jack blurts out. “I - I mean, everyone - would like to see you - and Seraphina! I really...want you to like it here.”

It’s a paltry attempt at what he really wishes to say, but Pitch’s expression softens, and he seems to understand. “I already do.”

There’s a sudden rustle from above them, and they gaze upwards: traditional garlands of mistletoe and holly have been strung up the banisters and along the doorframe as a ward against evil spirits, except even as they watch, a sprig of mistletoe curls away from the rest and stretches down until its leaves brush against Pitch’s taller head. 

“Seraphina!” he calls sharply, causing Jack to startle. “Bed!” 

He flicks his fingers and a sudden jet of black sand shoots up the stairs. In the distance there is a thump and a muffled squeak, followed by an apologetic, “Yes,  _ faðir.” _

Pitch glances back to Jack, and Jack can sense faint embarrassment in the tension of his shoulders. “My apologies. I think Sera has become too fond of human traditions.”

Jack gives a little shrug. He reaches up to break off the green and white spray above their heads, pulling it close to his face to admire the tear-shaped leaves and white berries. He looks up at Pitch from beneath his lashes. “I don’t mind. It’s all in good fun.”

Pitch’s eyes widen and he takes a deliberate step forward. Under the light of the moon, his fingers grasp Jack’s pale hand and the sprig of mistletoe he holds. He raises it to his lips and brushes a gentle kiss on the back, and Jack’s unneeded breath stutters in his throat.

“You have a good heart, Jack Frost,” Pitch says softly, stepping back and releasing his hand. “You are welcome here any time.”

As the wind carries Jack into the night sky, the mistletoe lays tucked against his heart, a promise and a wish. 

\- End


End file.
